Wednesday, December 21, 2011

The mid-afternoon air in the stuffy courtroom was stifling hot. Housed as it was on a temporary basis in the building where Delaney’s Fairy Dancers and Fiddle Players had previously practiced, it had neither air-conditioning, acoustics, nor gravitas.

A slightly angular man, in his early 40s shuffled across the battered floor to the witness box, gave his name and made a solemn affirmation. The judge mopped his forehead and looked at his watch. “I understand you are representing yourself Mr Murphy.”

“I am An Chúirt,” Alphonse replied.

“It’s ‘A Bhreithimh’ in the District Court,” the judge said wearily.

“Noted,” Alphonse said.

The judge nodded to the prosecuting barrister to begin his examination. The young lawyer busy reading his brief and without looking at the witness asked, “What age are you?” There was silence in the court. Alphonse Murphy busied himself taking a notebook and pen from his pocket. “Mr Murphy I asked you a question,” the barrister said looking at the judge.

‘I had no idea you were asking me a question… me specifically that is,” Alphonse replied.

The judge leant forward. “What are you doing Mr Murphy. You must give your attention to the court.”

“You are a regular patron of Mackey’s Pub Mr Murphy. Yes or No will suffice,” the barrister continued.

Alphonse wrote furiously. “Yes,” he replied.

“Thank you,” the barrister said with theatrical exasperation. “You are unemployed are you not?”

“I am a humanist,” Alphonse replied. There was laughter from the small group of spectators.

“That is not what I asked you,” the barrister spat. “Are you unemployed Yes or No.”

“I cannot answer that question,” Alphonse said defiantly.

“Judge,” the barrister pleaded.

“You will Mr Murphy,” the judge said angrily.

“It is not relevant to my case and therefore I respectfully decline to answer,” Alphonse said quietly.

“Do you not think, if you could stop bloody writing for one moment, that young Mr. Griffith here might be doing you a favour Mr. Murphy. If you are unemployed it might be a factor in modifying any punishment you receive.”

“I assume I am yet innocent A Bhreithimh. In any event I do not want pity I want a job. Unemployment has a multi-factorial aetiology, which cannot be answered truthfully with a simple yes or no answer. Like I said,” Murphy said reading from his notebook. “The question is not relevant to my case and I have a legitimate expectation of procedural fairness by your self and the court. It is my right.”

The judge stood up, shaking. “Unfortunately in here I am the sole arbiter of your rights Mr. Murphy and am holding you in contempt. You will be jailed until you purge that contempt. Take him down,” the judge barked at the court officials.

“Jasus,” a spectator said at the back of the courtroom. “What was he up for?” he asked his friend.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

He turns off the ignition and waits.Checks his watch.Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes pass.He checks his phone.No signal.He steps out.Horizontal rain.Cutting.Nobody about.Sees his reflection in the side-mirror.He is no picture.Dirty crumpled coat like Columbo used to wear.And the smell and taste of cheap cigars.Too many days like this, he thinks.Though half-closed eyes he walks towarda battered lock-up door stained by graffiti and urine;half-open.He calls out.Silence.He hesitates then pushes the door.Scraping sound.Pitch-black within and a cat-piss smell.Steps in stagnant water, searching for a switch.Strange crackling sound and a faint thrill in his finger.He jumps out of the water suddenly afraid.The light flickers:a single bulb with a jaundiced glow.His eyes adjust.One wall stacked with books:stratified.A mausoleum, he thinks.He touches the shroud.A puffball cloud of dust rises leaving his handprint.He coughs.There is a noise in the darkness beyond.He reaches out.Chooses a book as a weapon.Hardcover, sharp edges.There is a sudden crash and a spitting sound.He jumps again and just misses a cat; a black mangy cat with three legs moving fast past him.He calls out again.Silence.He looks at the book in his hand.Oxford University Press: Decanting Kant – The Metaphysics of Pleasure.He leaves it down.Edging along the wall he goes deeper.A different smell intrudes: putrefaction.His stomach turns and neck-hairs bristle.He steps in another pool.Sticky.Lifts his shoe to see.Dark red liquid stains the sole.He feels the air evaporate and pants.Pulls out a lighter.Unsteady hands.Follows the trail of fluid.Overturned can of paint and a dead rat:Eviscerated, maggot-ridden.He calls out again.Graveyard quiet.He stands at the back wall, jammed.He covers his mouth and nose with a linen handkerchief.He pulls at the shroud.A dust-storm envelops him;driven inwards by the wind.He coughs again and waits for the dust to settle.He looks.Racing green on blocks, pristine:an old Morgan.Beautiful, he thinks and the light-bulb blows.Shit, he says.Has to feel his way past the car and books.He stops with a start.In the doorway, in what light there is, a man is standing.Thin, angular, white-haired:haloed like an angel.Holding the cat.Stroking the place where the missing leg should have been.You Bruen, he croaks.Yeah. Are you interested?Maybe!

Note: This piece was originally submitted by e-mail on the 27 November 2011 for the FlashFiction section for a work less than 500 words in the Irish Times newspaper. I have not heard back from them or even whether it was ever received.It is dedicated to my friend Ken Bruen, crime writer and metaphysician.

Isabella opened the door of the apartment, entered and softly closed it behind her. There was the sound of running water from the far end of the corridor.

“Is that you Isabella?” a muffled and slightly distorted voice called out.

“Yes,” she answered as she entered the living room while quickly checking through the envelopes she had recovered from the lobby mailbox. “Don’t leave the bathroom in a mess. I know what you pampered elite athletes are like. Lackeys running after you.”

“Very funny.” The same voice was suddenly more distinct.

Isabella looked up to see her slim, blonde houseguest walk almost completely naked into the room, her head and face partially covered by a bath-towel as she busied herself drying off the last wetness of a recent shower. Isabella smiled as she admired the movements of the lithe and supple body and the almost innocent and carefree way the naked girl found, and perched on, the soft armrest of a chair. Isabella immediately moved closer and letting her hands linger on the moist shoulders, massaged them gently. The younger girl arched her neck back in response and purred out a pleased sound, like a stroked cat. After a few minutes, Isabella slowly lifted the towel and looked into the cool eyes before gently kissing her cousin’s lips. “I can see why our scientist friend found the sight of you so exciting Zoë. You flaunt that wonderful body of yours with total abandon.”

“Why not? They are so uptight, those Americans.”

“Irish-American, apparently.”

“Even worse! How did you get on, Isabella? Was the scientist equally enraptured by your own displayed, but withheld charms?”

“You have never complained.”

“No! You are right but then, I’m not very fussy and very horny.”

Isabella laughed and pulled at the naked girl’s ear. “As it so happens, everything is going to plan.”

“What do you mean?” Zoë stood up and began to wrap the towel around her.

As a mother would, Isabella finished the movement as she grasped the final corner and tucked it within the fold that lay across the younger woman’s chest. “As we anticipated, his attraction to me is the typical male response. It is rooted in the principals of action and not of reception. With careful handling I can ensure that the attraction will remain seated in his will and not his senses. In that way it can be easily manipulated.”

“And fully erect!” Zoë laughed.

“For as long as is necessary for our purposes.” Isabella joined in the laughter and the two women hugged, tenderly.

After a few moments Zoë withdrew. She walked across the room and pulled back the lace curtains a fraction to look down on the street below. She turned her head slightly in Isabella’s direction. “And what if it becomes more than that? Don’t forget how well I know your failings, Isabella!” she said, concerned.

“You mean the possibility of love?”

“Yes.”

“Any potential for a greater involvement, particularly in this instance, must be avoided at all costs and any inclinations towards it to be instantly undermined.” Isabella paused for a second to join the younger woman at the window. “I do find him attractive however.”

“I could sense that.” Zoë spoke sternly.

“But I also recognise my weakness for love. As an affliction it cannot be commanded or controlled but it would negate our efforts.”

The late-evening sunset had become a spectacular display of orange and crimson colours as the two perspiring players finally walked off the tennis court and made their way to the poolside bar. Both of their faces, streaked with the clay-soiled sweat of the game, showed the strain of the intense exercise. Little was said as they quickly ordered and swallowed a glass of iced lemonade.

“Would you like to sit down out here for a while to cool off, Caroline?” Diego Rios asked.

“Sure,” Caroline Mara replied.

“What would you like to drink?” he asked.

“A gin and tonic please, Diego. Lime not lemon. Loads of ice please,” she said winking at the attentive bartender before moving to a table that overlooked the seafront. Directly ahead of her at the water’s edge, two small children, finally free from the day’s heat, danced with excited shouts in and out of the small waves that lapped against the sand. Their mother, heavily pregnant, watched over them anxiously, and called out whenever they waded out too far. Further along the beach a few barefoot couples were taking a day’s end walk on the warm golden sands of the shoreline.

“When Vincente told me that you played tennis, he never said how good you were Caroline,” Rios said as he joined her with their drinks.

“Thank you Diego. Both for the compliment and the gin,” she smiled. You’re no mean hand yourself.”

“I thought so but it’s a long time since I have had such a hard match. I do not like to be beaten.”

“By a woman you mean?”

“By anybody!” he laughed.

“Where is gallantry gone?” Caroline asked as she took him in. His blonde hair was matted down against his temples and he looked a good deal older after the exertion.

“Its funny you should say that, Caroline, as I had fully intended to let you win. As part of a well-executed charm offensive I was going to play hard but not too hard. However, it was soon apparent that I was in a more than equal contest and my survival instincts took over. All that preparatory effort in brushing my hair and teeth swept aside by that forehand of yours.”

“I like a man who is not a complete hostage to his vanity,” Caroline laughed as she called the waiter; her first gin and tonic had quickly followed the way of the lemonade. She turned back to look at Rios, an inquisitive smile on her face. “Is the charm offensive over, then?”

“Does it offend you?” he asked, a little taken aback by her directness.

“What woman or person, for that matter, could be offended by charm?” she replied a little distracted by a couple on the beach as they shared a lingering, passionate kiss.

“I would not want to take advantage of a beautiful woman on her own in a foreign country.” Rios flashed a tooth-filled smile.

“Thank you again for another compliment, Diego but you should give ‘us’ women more credit than that. Most of us can see through men, charming or otherwise, before they even get a so-called offensive off the ground. If a woman allows herself to be taken advantage of, as you put it, then it is a matter of choice not inevitability.”

“That is not my experience, at least not here in Mexico at any rate. Women here are taken advantage of,” he said haughtily.

Caroline’s attention was diverted again as the young couple she had watched kissing on the beach passed by close to their table. She smiled up at the girl who grinned back at her and Caroline continued to watch as the couple walked towards the hotel, their hips pulled close together by fondling hands deep in each other’s back pockets. Diego moved in his chair in an agitated fashion. Spoilt, she thought. “I’m sorry, Diego. I was distracted by young love. I heard what you said but, whose fault is that? There is a difference between victims and equals. In choosing victims as a target for your charms you become an oppressor not a liberator of passion,” she said as she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.

Rios stood up suddenly and went back to the bar where he filled his towel with ice-cubes. Returning to the table he offered it to Caroline who removed one, to press against her neck. Rios watched as the melted water flowed in a steady stream downwards into the cleavage of her breasts and smiled contentedly as he noticed that her nipples, still partially engorged from the exercise, become fully erect beneath a thin cotton shirt, in response to the ice-cold water. “Are you a woman of passion, Caroline?” he asked as he wrapped the ice-filled towel around his neck.

“Yes, I can be. Depends on the stimulus though.”

“What? The man you are with?”

Caroline laughed as she wiped off the last drops of ice water from her neck and upper chest with her towel. “Why ever would I confine it to the sometimes limited stimulus of a man? My passions can be ignited by friendship, loyalty, disloyalty, work, a miscarriage of justice, even the desire to win a tennis match.” It was all very true, she thought.

“So I noticed. Are you married, Caroline?”

“Why do you ask Diego?”

“I was just wondering how any one man could sustain the energy to quench all those fires of your passions.”

“I’m married, yes. Are you?” The Mexican was pushing a bit too hard, she thought and became a little defensive. Yesterday’s conversation with Michael had left her with an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Sure, she had expected his reaction to the Alpanna offer but there was something else, something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. The parameters were being shifted. She knew that her own changing had begun some time previously, around the same time that she took up the offer of work with the Bureau. Perhaps Michael was just catching up and given time they could sort it out. As she looked at Rios, sipping his chilled martini, she did not think there had been any undue malice or condemnation in his observation but she was not yet prepared to open up to him, a stranger.

“No. Not any more,” he replied as he looked at his watch. “Well not for . . . Let’s see, the last fourteen days at any rate.”

“What happened?”

“Her lawyer, who incidentally was English-trained, summed it up as disinterest, disloyalty, distrust, disillusion, dismay, disgust, disdain and divorce. In that sequence.”

“Was it true?” she probed.

“Yes and no. I am no saint but . . . You know how these things are? Half-truths and half-lies. At the end it is a trade off.”

“And how do you feel about it now, Diego? The divorce?” Caroline thought that there had been a genuine sense of hurt in his voice and she found herself responding to its hint of injustice. She was not sure however whether this was because he had lost his wife or that he had lost the battle.

Rios’ forehead became a map of lines as he pushed up his eyebrows with the tips of his fingers. “I could add two more words. Disaster and disembowelment! I have been cut off from my children. Do you have children, Caroline?”

“No. What ages are yours?”

“My son, Tomas, is nine and little Maria is four.”

Caroline saw that his eyes reddened a little as he quickly brought his towel up to wipe his forehead again. She waited for him to finish. “It must be very difficult when children are involved?”

“You are very lucky, Caroline. The desire to protect them impairs rational judgements.” Rios swallowed hard and immediately put his hand up and clicked his fingers to get the waiter’s attention. “Would you like another drink?”

“I don’t think so. I’m already feeling a little woozy.”

“Woozy! What is that?”

“Mildly drunk. Not fully in control of myself.”

“Hey! So what! This is Mexico. You can sleep it off later. I’ve never had such a good-looking, or understanding, padre confessor before and I don’t want you to go.” Rios laughed out loud.

Caroline blushed. “Well! When you put it so charmingly, how could I refuse? One more drink and then, I must go. I have to telephone my husband and prepare my notes for tomorrow.”

“Where is your husband?”

“In Spain. At a conference.”

“What’s his name?”

“Michael.”

The drinks arrived and Diego signed the chit while the waiter cleared the used glasses. Caroline offered to pay but he would have none of it.

“That’s a strange coincidence,” Rios said.

“What’s strange, Diego?”

“The two of us here. My wife’s . . . my ex-wife’s name is Michaela.”

Caroline said nothing as she turned to watch the sun finally set below the horizon. The sky became dark quite quickly, the twilight a very brief interlude to the coming night. She shivered slightly and Rios attentively stood up and placed the jacket of his tennis tracksuit around her shoulders. His hands lingered on her shoulders a little longer than she thought absolutely necessary but did not object. The fingers were no longer cold or lax in the pressure they exerted. She turned her head slightly to look up at him. “Diego, I really must go. It’s getting cold and I need a shower.”

“Sure, me too. That red clay gets everywhere!” He lifted his hands off her shoulders and walked back to his side of the table. Lifting the martini glass he swallowed the contents in one quick movement before looking directly at her and speaking in a soft voice. “Caroline?”

“Yes.”

“Would you have dinner with me tonight?”

She stood up, and a little unsteadily picked up her racquet from the ground. She handed him back his tracksuit top. “I don’t know. Some of the others are heading into La Paz to eat. They want me to go and make a night of it, on the town with them. I said I would think about it but I’m not sure that I want to. I think I might just have a sandwich in my room.”

“Listen, Caroline. Have your shower and get some rest. I will ring you at . . . say nine o’clock. If you are still here and you feel hungry, have dinner with me. If not, I will see you tomorrow afternoon.”

She looked at him. “I won’t be here tomorrow afternoon Diego. I have to be back in LA by then. I am doing the morning session and catching a flight at midday.”

“So soon. That’s a great shame. I am unable to come to the morning session and therefore it is even more of a reason why we should have dinner tonight. Think about it, Caroline. Please!”

“I will, but no promises. Thanks for the tennis game. I really enjoyed it.”

“My pleasure. Until nine then.”

Caroline walked into the hotel, and already regretted the three quick gins taken on an empty stomach. It was only as she returned her racquet back to the receptionist that she realized she had left her room-key on the table by the bar. Returning back to the poolside she saw that Diego was still sitting there. His back was to her and he was talking animatedly into a cell-phone. She touched him gently on the shoulder as she reached the table. Rios, instantly irritated by the intrusion, twisted sharply to glare up at her while she leant forward to retrieve the key not unlike the earlier incident she had observed at the meeting when he had flared up at Miguel Montana. His eyes flashed coldly until he realized who had disturbed him and then hastily softened. Caroline was annoyed by his reaction and held up the key and dangled it in front of him. “Did another bloody football match go against you then, Commander? I just happened to forget my key. I’m so sorry to have disturbed you,” she said sarcastically before turning on her heel and walking away from the table.

Diego Rios abruptly terminated his conversation and closed the flap of the cell-phone. He got up and rushed to run around in front of her. With waving arms, he tried forcing an exaggerated and apologetic smile as he shuffled backwards ahead of her. “I am so very sorry, Caroline. Please forgive me. You caught me off guard.” He pointed to his phone. “Idiot subordinates. Incompetent fools, all of them. I cannot be gone for one day and they botch things up.”

“It’s not enough of a justification to take your anger on out me,” she said sharply.

“I know. I am so sorry. Please stop for a moment and let me try and explain to you,” he pleaded.

“Be quick.” She stopped.

“A problem has arisen and my second in command now needs me to sort it out. It was his incompetence that was the cause of the problem in the first place and I’m so sorry that my hot-tempered reaction has ruined a wonderful afternoon and the new friendship between us.” He brought his hands together as if in prayer, moving them up and down to emphasise his atonement.

“Do you have to go somewhere?” she asked.

“No,” he almost shouted as he pressed her hands between his. “Well, not until tomorrow at any rate, thankfully. I would not pass up on the possibility of having dinner with you Caroline, even if the US suddenly invaded Mexico. It is still a possibility, I hope, dinner that is?”

Caroline smiled. “Perhaps. Depends on how the war goes. Ring me at nine and I’ll see how I feel.”

“Thank you, Caroline. I am so happy.” He stood back to let her pass and she was nearly at the door of the hotel when she turned around to look back at him.

“Oh, Commander Rios,” she was aware of the hotel porter watching her.

“Yes.”

“If, and it’s a big if, we do have dinner we are not going to discuss football. Ok!”

“I promise,” he called back.

Rios waited for Caroline to disappear out of sight before he extracted and then dialled a number on his cell-phone. There was a look of relief on his face as he spoke.

Monday, December 05, 2011

Rihla (The Journey) – was the short title of a 14th Century (1355 CE) book written in Fez by the Islamic legal scholar Ibn Jazayy al-Kalbi of Granada who recorded and then transcribed the dictated travelogue of the Tangerian, Ibn Battuta. The book’s full title was A Gift to Those who Contemplate the Wonders of Cities and the Marvels of Travelling and somehow the title of Ibn Jazayy's book captures the ethos of many of the city and country journeys I have been lucky to take in past years.

This rihla is about Hamadan, Iran.

Last April I came across an article in Vanity Fair about a computer malware worm virus called Stuxnet, which using a Windows platform targets specific industrial control systems. I was reminded of this in a fascinating piece in the Sunday Times magazine last weekend about the efforts of a German computer software engineer, Ralph Langner to awaken the industrial world to the dangers of Stuxnet and how it can be freely adapted as the basis for cyber warfare in the future.

Stuxnet, armed with stolen Taiwanese certificates, specifically targets Siemens industrial control systems via their programmable logic controllers (PLC) and appears to have been developed by US and Israeli agencies to hit the Siemens S7-315PLCs that control the rate of spin, in short sequence attacks of 15 or 50 minutes, in the centrifuges at the Natanz Fuel Enrichment Plant. The town of Nantaz, on the eastern side of the Zargoz mountains between Isfahan and Kasan in Iran, is in reality about 36 km from the plant, which is closer to the turn off to the beautiful heritage village of Abyaneh.

Stuxnet is an anagram of two words contained within the malware code but equally intriguing is the finding of another word ‘Myrtus’ buried within the code. Myrtus or myrtle translated into Hebrew is ‘Hadassah’ the birth name of Esther of the Bible, the queen-consort of the Persian Achaemenid King Ahasuerus (Ataxerses II 405-359BCE). Langner reasons that the authors or developers of the virus could not help giving a signature to the virus.

Now Esther and her uncle Mordecai are credited with preventing a pogrom of Jews in the Persian Empire by reminding the King of how Mordecai had saved his life earlier in his reign. The King went further by allowing the Jews to kill their would-be executioners and the deliverance is still one of the most celebrated Jewish feasts, that of Purim.

The events in the Bible took place in Susa or Shusan, the Achaemenid winter capital on the Western side of the Zargoz mountains. Hamadan was an Achaemenid summer capital because it is framed by Mount Alvand at 3574m, and being situated at 1850m above sea-level it is always cool. Hamadan is the site of Ecbatana the famed seven circular walled capital of the Medes. It is also the resting place of Avicenna (Abu ibn Sina) one of the most famous polymaths of all times and from my perspective the author of one of the most famous treatises of medical care the Canon Of Medicine (Al-Qanoon fi al-Tibb).

Ski Lift Above Hamadan, Iran

In March 2009, with the snow still thick on Mount Alvand and the single rickety ski lift depositing skiers on its slopes, I visited Hamadan. In addition to Avicenna’s tomb and the excavations of Ecbatana a surprise to me was the presence in the old Jewish quarter of the burial place of Esther and Mordecai. Jewish pilgrims still come here to recite the Megillah or Scroll of Esther and it has been granted protected status by the Iranian Government. Greeted by the custodian Rabbi Rajad in French, I donned the skull-cap and crawled into the inner tower where the tombs are located. An eerie sense of history prevailed and on leaving all the Rabbi would accept for himself was the gift of a Viagra emblazoned pharmaceutical biro I had with me from Ireland.

Esther and Mordecai's Tombs,

Hamadan, Iran.

I thought of Rabbi Rajad this weekend, existing in a forgotten Jewish diaspora in Iran and how in contrast to a cheap pen, the ‘Esther virus’ or Stuxnet has resulted in the Iranian government replacing about 1000 of the centrifuges and accelerating the plant’s construction and purpose. And I thought of those Iranian Jewish diaspora and how the Nantaz plant, fully operational with the ability to produce weapon-grade uranium by 2015, will provoke Israel and America to do all in their power to destroy it, evoking perhaps at home a new Purim, a new day of Lots to celebrate, while rendering their fellow Jews, and the history of their deliverance, obsolete.

The dial tone indicated a free line and as Michael Mara waited for his call to be answered there was a gentle knock on the bedroom door. He held the phone to his ear as he disengaged the lock and opened the door to the hotel night porter who was carrying a tray. “Your sandwich and tea Señor.”

“Thank you. Please put it down –”

“Hello,” a voice interrupted. “US Army Advanced Biological Research Center, Manassas. General Arnold’s office.” The voice was polite with a soft southern accent.

“One moment please,” Michael said as he indicated where he wanted the tray put down, waited for this to happen and then handed the porter a tip as he shut the door behind him.

“Hello! General Arnold’s office.” The voice was less polite at the delay.

“I’m sorry,” Michael explained. “I was just closing a door to get some privacy. General Arnold, please.” He resisted the urge to immediately bite into the sandwich.

“Who is that calling?”

“Doctor Michael Mara.”

“Oh yes, Doctor Mara. General Arnold is in a conference raaght now but instructed me to disturb him if you called. Please hold.” The line sound switched to a recording of the Bourrée from Handel’s Firework music and it was only when it had just begun a third repeat that the southern voice broke in again, “Sorry for the delay, Doctor Mara. Ah am putting you through to the General, raaght now.”

The connection was seamless. “Bob Arnold here. Is that you, Michael?”

“Yes, Bob.”

“I’m sorry about the delay but had to transfer your call to a secure line in my office. I’ve been trying to track you down since yesterday.”

“I know. Caroline told me.”

“Then, why didn’t you contact me?” Arnold demanded in his military way.

“Many reasons, but most of them are none of your business,” Michael replied in a good-humoured voice. “I’m on holiday as of yesterday and I wanted to enjoy the first day at least. It always spells trouble when you start looking for me, Bob.”

“Where are you, Michael?”

“Spain.” Michael was not prepared to be more specific than that.

“That’s good. We can speak safely.”

Arnold sounded very serious. “What do you mean, Bob?”

“Oh it is just that our Sat Intel and intercept monitoring is at ‘A status’ in Spain. Any attempt or suspicion of interference will automatically lock-out your call.”

The military loved their games, Michael thought as he smiled to himself. “Is all this cloak and dagger necessary, Bob?” he asked.

“Yes, Michael, it is. There is a ‘Priority 1’ level only, clearance on this conversation. It will be taped.”

“Say what?”

“The Director of the CIA, Marshall, the Secretary of State, Freeborn, and Burns of the Advanced Research Projects Agency will be made aware of all that is said between us, but it is off limits to everyone else. Is that understood, Michael?”

Michael looked at his sandwich regretting he had not eaten before making the call. He poured some tea. “Sure. It must be important. Go on, Bob.”

“The parallel piggyback vector-study trial results have started coming in from Beltsville and our Israeli friends in Bet Dagon, a bit earlier than expected. They . . .” Arnold paused, as if hesitating about giving some bad news.

“And?” Michael asked, wary. The results had not been due for another month. There was another prolonged silence. Oh Jesus, he thought, just get it over with Bob.

“They have exceeded all expectations,” Arnold said in a deadpan monotone.

“Bastard! You had me worried there,” Michael laughed, thinly.

“Couldn’t resist it, Mikey boy. Great news . . . yeah?”

“Give me some specifics, Bob.”

“As you predicted in the gene sequence design, enzyme activity has been reduced to about one percentage of normal. Almost undetectable! The Anx-P works a dream.”

“That’s encouraging, Bob.” Michael tried to suppress his excitement.

“Encouraging! It’s more than fucking encouraging. We have the bastards licked, boy.”

Michael Mara had worked, before starting up Hoxygene, on a project to isolate and identify the gene sequence for the enzyme that controlled the cocaine production in the leaves of Erythroxylum coca. Funding for the experiments had been provided by a Federal grant from the Advanced Research Projects Agency. The patent for the isolated sequence had been secretly filed and approved in 1994, but field trials of a follow-up technique, using the sequence information to design an inhibiting probe to suppress the action of the enzyme, had only begun in 1998. They had called the blocker sequence that they had developed ‘an anti-expression probe’ or ‘Anx-P’.

“Not really, Bob. We still have the problem of being able to deliver the Anx-P to the plant with predictive effect and accuracy,” Michael said with scientific caution.

“It’s no longer an issue, Michael. You’re not listening to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you understand? Your solution has worked a dream. Nobel prize stuff!”

Michael thought back over the road they had travelled together. He reminded himself that although Bob Arnold was also a scientist he was firstly an army general and, at times, was given to significant hyperbole to justify his huge expenditure and that although his sequencing solution had been elegant it was hardly the stuff of a Nobel prize. In order to be able to deliver a new gene sequence carrying a blocking instruction to the cocaine producing plants it would either, have to be done at the time of the plant’s fertilization in a lab, or alternatively by using the vector of a natural plant virus to carry the sequence along with it, when it infected the plant. He had concentrated on the second solution. The US Department of Agriculture had isolated a leaf-mosaic virus that affected the Erythroxylum coca plant, in 1989. The initial hopes for the virus by the Department were dampened however by early studies which showed that it had a very low virulence and penetration and thus in the wild caused little damage to the cocaine producing leaves. By this time Michael had established Hoxygene and the US Department of Agriculture had approached him to see if there was some way of enhancing the virus activity. With the help of an Israeli colleague, Moshe Hertzog, Michael had found a way of splicing into the leaf mosaic virus, with the help of a short unique insertion code, a gene sequence from another plant species pathogen, the Tobamovirus. The gene sequence from the Tobamovirus had a very specific function. It directed the production of, what plant virologists called a ‘movement-protein’. These movement-proteins allow viruses like Tobamovirus to accelerate their own rapid transfer between cells and thus increase their infectivity. They had utilized the large volume STMV or satellite Tobamovirus crystals grown in the Space Shuttle experiments in 1992. By incorporating the Tobamovirus gene sequence into the cocoa leaf-mosaic virus, it then gained an ability to direct a movement protein and Michael’s approach meant they had been able to increase the penetration of the mosaic virus by about 300 per cent. Michael also remembered that the necessary luck, that sometimes accompanies hard scientific work and which occasionally allowed unexpected discoveries, had been with them. They had found that the addition of the Tobamovirus movement-protein sequence into the middle of the leaf-mosaic virus structure had also altered one of its terminal sequences. This unexpected alteration provided them with the opportunity to then chemically attach, or piggyback, the Anx-P onto the altered sequence. The new ‘modified’ cocoa leaf-mosaic virus had therefore, a movement-protein, borrowed from the Tobamovirus, to increase its penetration and the attached Anx-P blocking-enzyme sequence, which would then activate to inhibit cocaine enzyme activity without any obvious reduction in the enhanced infectivity of the new virus.

Michael realised fully the great importance of the information Bob Arnold was sharing. The Anx-P sequence had been one of the first patents granted to Hoxygene and to a large extent the future of the company depended on its successful application. “Go on, Bob,” he encouraged as calmly as he could.

“If anything, infectivity is further enhanced.” The general required very little encouragement. “All plants analysed, so far, show a 100 per cent penetration and expression of the virus. In addition both E.coca and E.novogranatense are equally affected.”

“And?”

“That’s the beauty of it, Mikey. The plant structure is not altered. The leaf-mosaic virus appears to modify its previous characteristics to concentrate fully on the role of piggyback delivery. In addition, in the second and third generation studies that have just come through, the altered plants, although no longer producing cocaine, appear to have a preferential growth over native uninfected stock. We could not have hoped for a better result. We have codenamed it MSV – Mara’s Stealth Virus.”

“That’s excellent new – ssslurrp”

“What did you say, Mikey?”

“Sorry, Bob, I was just taking a bite of a sandwich. It just arrived as I phoned you and I’m ravenous.” Michael wiped the dripping mayonnaise from his mouth and waited for the bolus of food to swallow. “I said that is excellent news Bob. We should however wait for at least ten generations to analyze any down sides.”

“That’s the first problem, Michael. We may not be able to wait that long.”

“What do you mean, Bob? We agreed on this in the protocols.”

“I know, but the President, with the advice of the State Department and their scientific advisors, has authorized full scale MSV production with the intention of beginning high altitude airborne dispersion in the Putamyo-Caqueta region of southern Columbia next January. Peru and Bolivia will follow soon after.”

Michael went on immediate alert. “But that is preposterous, Bob! It is far too soon. We must fully evaluate any other human and environmental impacts. Remember the problems you are encountering and have encountered with both the glycophosphate herbicides and the EN-4 fungus. Without full evaluation you will also contravene the 1975 Convention on Biological Weapons. Neither I, nor Hoxygene will be associated with that plan. Please set up a meeting with the President and his advisors for me. I will be back on Sunday.”

“It’s too late, buddy. The President signed an executive order yesterday.”

“I’ll withhold the virus patent,” Michael said angrily.

“It’s too late for that as well, Michael.”

“What do you mean, Bob?”

“In the interests of National Security a second executive order rescinded your patent and transferred it to the Army.”

“I do not believe you. That’s illegal.”

“Michael as you well know the United States is one of the most powerful dictatorships in existence. A Presidential executive order in the interests of National Security supersedes many legal rights. By way of compensation you are to be paid 11,000,000 dollars, raised by the CIA venture capital firm, In-Q-Tel.”

“That’s bloody piracy, Bob! It’s worth twenty times that to the company, but at this juncture the money is not the issue. I have got to be fully sure of the altered virus’s impact. We must act responsibly.”

“Give the money to me if you like, Michael, I know the price of my soul. In any event, we are being responsible and for a very good reason.”

“Who’s in charge, Bob?”

“Jack Mitchell, Assistant Secretary of State; with responsibility for the Bureau of International Narcotics and Law Enforcement. A good man. Used be an ambassador in Peru. He reports directly to Sec State and the President. West Hemi is out of the inner loop.”

“Why?”

“You did not hear me say this. He’s weird.”

“I’ve never met him.”

“Oh Jesus! He gave a press briefing in March and lectured the hacks on herbicide use in the alpha quadrant of our planetary system and on how the US of A wakes up every morning wanting to save the world. We were all diving for cover.”

“This is definitely a new administration, Bob. Alienate the Europeans with CO2 and the Chinese and Russians with treaty busting reactivation of ‘Star Wars’ missile testing. In fact, alienate everybody by dispensing with all international treaties!” Michael tried taunting the soldier-scientist but to little effect.

“The present administration,” Arnold continued. “Are however to their credit, going all out on implementing ‘Plan Columbia’ of the Clinton administration. In addition to the 750,000,000 dollars to the Columbian Army counter-narcotic battalions for helicopters and other equipment the President has even directed that the ARPS-funded ‘High Altitude Endurance Unmanned Aerial Vehicle Program’ be moved to the Patrick Air Force Base in Melbourne, Florida and seconded to the new INL task force under Mitchell. A total budget of one billion dollars has been approved. MSV has entered the secret stratospheric world of emergency supplemental budgets.”

“Jesus!” Michael tapped out a cigarette from the packet lying on the bedside table and lit it with a shaking hand. He needed time to think.

“Michael, are you still there?”

“Yes, Bob.”

“There is one other problem.”

“Only one, Bob?”

“I’m being very serious here, Michael. In fact, I'm being deadly serious! We suspect that the news about MSV has already leaked out.”

“To who?” Michael almost shouted.

“INL suspect that a secret organization with links to the Asian opium trade have got wind of the experiments and want to take it into their control.”

“Who? Is it the warlord, Khun Sa? How did he get that type of information so quickly?” The smoke from his cigarette was filling the room.

“The INL boys do not think the Burmese are involved. The intelligence was obtained from a source in Afghanistan, but it points to a European-based organization. There may have been a leak about the field trials at the Israeli end and the information passed to an intermediary.”

“Who?”

“We think that somebody working for the pharmaceutical firm, Alpanna BioPharm, paid for the information and passed it on to the Afghans. An investigation is underway as we speak.”

“Alpanna. Charles Alexander. The bastard! I should have guessed his company might be involved.” Michael could feel sweat forming droplets on his forehead. He needed to be careful however about what he divulged to Arnold.

“Do you know him, Michael?”

“Alpanna BioPharm has just made a hostile bid for Hoxygene, Bob. This is industrial espionage. If the news breaks about the virus, it will not only make us a target for every pissed-off cocaine producer but also when it is known that the American government has appropriated it, the company’s shareholders will want to bale out. No virus, no profits,” Michael explained.

“Listen, Michael. We’re not sure if Alexander is involved in getting the information or what his relationship, if any, with the opium boys might be. The CIA has placed him under surveillance as of yesterday.”

“This is very disturbing, Bob.”

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. Michael could hear another phone ringing and being answered in the background.

Suddenly another voice came on the line. It was curt, electronic in character. “This connection is terminated.”

The line went dead.

V.

The satellite videophone connection took some time to establish and even then the picture was of very poor quality. “Ali baik salaam,” a man wearing a balaclava spoke from through the haze.

“Akzabti.”

“Who wishes to use our shade?” the balaclava asked.

“I have been instructed by the Overlord to ask a favour of the Khannakiya.”

“And that is?”

“For the Pir-i-Roshan to find the truth.”

“But he is the Sahib al-zaman, the Lord of Time. Is this truly necessary?”

“There is a passage, my friend from the Persian poet Sa’di’s Gulistan which says that ‘a lie, which does a good work, is better than truth, which breeds confusion’. Just accept that it is deemed necessary by the Overlord.”